


First Burn

by Dagger_Stiletto



Series: Song-Inspired Oneshots [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Heartbreak, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Infidelity, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Protective Derek Hale, Protective Peter Hale, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:54:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26378377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dagger_Stiletto/pseuds/Dagger_Stiletto
Summary: Sometimes the magic within needs a trigger to manifest. Unfortunately, those triggers can be traumatic. Good thing Stiles has a steady support system to help ease the heart ache.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Song-Inspired Oneshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917034
Comments: 13
Kudos: 415





	First Burn

**Author's Note:**

> I've been listening to the same freaking songs for the past few weeks. To the point that I'm building scenarios involving my preferred fandoms around them. So now I've created a oneshot series based on or inspired by some of these songs. Hopefully they're not utter crap. I hand-wrote this in a week, typed it in a day, and had it proofread the day after that.
> 
> This work was beta-read by my lovely friend dvoiddubs! Check them out on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/DubTheVoid?s=07) and [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UChDuMJQ0jDuSzqKfoJLUNBg) for their amazing voice-acting and dubs! Support my friend-bean!

_Stiles' first inkling that he has magic, that_ he's more than just a squishy human armed with flailing limbs and sarcasm, is, predictably, when his mother struck him in the face for the first time as she first reached worst of her disease. He reached to touch his face, having fallen to the floor from the force of the sudden backhand, an adult striking down a nine-year-old, and frost spread from his fingertips to numb the pain of his throbbing cheek. It melted almost instantly, mistaken for the tears in his eyes as Claudia quickly returned to her senses and began apologizing profusely.

Later, he thought maybe he imagined it. It didn't prevent him from bruising like a peach, and it doesn't happen again despite the frequency of the outbursts.

Much later, he thinks it's because he knew to expect the blows now that it had become a possibility, therefore not sparking involuntary reactions of surprise.

Any indicators after that are circumstantial and easily explained away.

When it rains for ten days straight the day of and following Claudia's death, it was only a coincidence.

Treading water while holding a werewolf—which, holy shit, werewolves are _real!—_ that is twice his weight in pure muscle and burgeoning grumpiness is a testament to his desperation and unwillingness to allow either of them to die. Creating a circle with Mountain Ash with the power of his mind or whatever is apparently not all that special if crazy ass hunters can do it, too. Coming out of the majority of most, though not all, excursions of the Big Bad of the week-month-day is pure luck. Bringing his Jeep back to life by whispering “please please please” while turning the key only proves that she definitely does not need to be serviced and junked, no matter what his dad or friends say; clearly the duct tape and love is all the repair she needs.

Surviving the possession of the Nogitsune is nothing short of a miracle, but he chalks it up to the determination from his pack to save him.

It takes a perfect storm from a buildup of traumatic experiences in one day to drive it home, and by then, it's almost too late.

The fateful day starts off with his phone dropping at just the right angle for the screen to shatter when it hits the ground. The resulting tantrum sets him back by about fifteen minutes in his normal routine, and he forgets to take his Adderall and to pack his Xanax. He burns his coffee and doesn't have time to dump and make new, nor make anything to eat, already running late for his early morning class. Halfway through his second class, he struggles with focusing, reminding him of his skipped medication, and his stomach squirms painfully from the skipped meal.

His boyfriend cancels their date after he has lunch at home, the third time in two weeks, claiming to have other obligations that conveniently seem to have sprung up just to further fuck with Stiles. He hasn't seen his boyfriend of eight months in a week. It's just another crappy thing for his crappy day.

The elevator is down for repair in the building that holds his next class, and he has to climb three flights of stairs, practically sprinting to make it on time. When he goes back down them after class, he falls down the last seven steps and janks his knee a little, bruising up almost immediately.

A loud noise in an alleyway on the way back home sends him spiralling in a PTSD-fueled panic attack. None of the three people he calls for help answer their phones, and he cuts his finger on the shattered screen. A kind-hearted stranger helps him through it, but because he doesn't know them, it takes him longer than ever for him to calm down, and he nearly hyperventilates himself into unconsciousness before the breathing exercises and number-based distractions take effect. By then, he's so drained and upset that he calls off work at the local supermarket for the first time he started there. His boss assures him it's fine, they're slow on Wednesdays anyway, but it doesn't make him feel any better.

The stranger walks him the rest of the way to his apartment building, worried after such a horrible episode. He thanks them weakly, assures them he'll be fine from here, checks the mailbox in the lobby, and heads up to the third floor to the apartment he, Peter, and Derek had picked out; the Hales, once the pack got their collective shit together before they all split for college, had taught them about pack traditions and hierarchy, one of which was pooling resources such as knowledge and money, so no one had to stay in a shitty apartment or dorm when they went to college. It took a load off his dad to know that he didn't have to work himself to death to provide for Stiles what the scholarships and pack already had covered.

Stiles smiles when he sees the signature blue enveloped with Charles' handwriting amidst the bills and junk mail. His boyfriend had the adorable, charming habit of hand-writing letters to friends and family, and he'd received quite a few heartwarming letters fro his older-by-two-years paramour since their second date. He's kept every letter and the few cards from his birthday and holidays in a shoebox, and he re-reads them on bad days like this to feel happy and loved again.

The events of the day had been a lot, and college life sucks without the added fuckery, so he feels lighter, more carefree when he sees the blue envelope, warmth and relief fluttering in his chest. He may not get to see Charles or go on the date they've rescheduled so many times, but at least Charles is proving that he's still thinking about Stiles. He opens the envelope and unfolds the single sheet of stationary as he nudges the door to his apartment closed behind him.

He drops his messenger bag on the couch, kicks off his shoes and socks to be picked up later, and pads to the kitchen for a glass of water. He sets his phone on the counter before opening the cabinet, gets ice from the freezer, and runs water from the tap. He sips and starts skimming the letter.

The glass shatters when it hits the floor after his eyes scan the first few lines.

“ _Angelica, my darling,_

_I don't know why you're so upset. Stiles still doesn't know about you, and he hasn't the slightest inkling of what we have planned. He won't until I'm good and ready. Our plan is working flawlessly, my dear, even if it is going a little more slowly than we anticipated. He's a tough nut to crack. Just a few more months, and we won't have to meet in secret anymore. You know you're the only one for me, sweetheart...”_

Mindlessly, he stumbles to the counter for support, heedless of the glass embedding in his feet, slicing the soft skin and spilling blood across the floor. His vision narrows as he reads Charles' words to this faceless Angelica, the endearments and sickening-sweet tone something he'd never been privy to. He'd only ever called Stiles _babe_ and while he was often flowery in his letters, it was never to this extent. He never went out of his way to make Stiles feel more special than he is.

He re-reads the letter, trembling, sick to his stomach. The floor under his feet trembles, and he dazedly wonders if there's a low-grade earthquake happening. It's California, after all.

The anger sets in, all-consuming and sharp, on the third read. He'd been played, lied to. Made to believe that someone loved and accepted him despite his scars, his tendencies to space out and hyperfocus in equal measure, his mood swings and flashbacks, his quirkiness, his secrets. It was all a ploy, to what end he doesn't know, and it doesn't matter in this moment. He crumples the page in his hand, tears spilling over unbidden, betrayal eating at his insides, making him sway unsteadily.

It all comes to a head, clashing inside him, explodes out of him, and manifests in fire.

Sparks burst from his hands, leaping to the counter and the wall and climbing up it in an instant, spreading faster than anything he'd ever seen before. The flames consume the wall, counter, and head for the window before the smoke alarm shrills out its warning cry. It's what breaks Stiles out of his stupor, and he shoves the paper in his pocket and scrambles for the fire escape outside his kitchen window, leaving smears of blood behind. The shoulder of his shirt catches fire as he passes through the window, and he beats it out as he hobbles down the metal, shaking fire escape, others spilling out of the building above and below him.

The next few hours go by in a blur. Someone calls the fire department, and the building is saved. Only Stiles apartment is affected, and because the fire department was only minutes away, the fire had barely made it out of the kitchen into the living room before it was put out. While a paramedic stitches up and dresses his feet, another treating the minor burns on his hand and his shoulder, a neighbor lets him borrow their phone to call his dad—since his own was destroyed in the fire—who picks up no matter what or who is calling, just in case his kid needs him. He blubbers a half-explanation, overwhelmed with the events of the day, and Noah tells him that he and the Hales would be up in a couple hours.

The fire is ruled an accident, some faulty wiring, and the landlords will need to have the rest of the building checked, and that floor would need treated for smoke damage. Once all is safe, he and a few of kind neighbors pack the things that could be saved, aka everything not attacked to the kitchen and the adjoining wall of the living room, so he can be moved into one of the empty apartments downstairs. It's hard moving with both feet swollen and stitched from the broken glass, and the neighbors relegate him to sit in an office chair and wheel around to do his part of the packing.

His dad, Peter, Derek, and Chris Argent arrive faster than expected, and he knows the Sheriff took advantage of certain liberties driving a squad car affords him, speeding down the highway to get to his kid as fast as he could, Peter booking it not far behind him. They get there in time for the actual move, and the older men take over carrying his boxes, trash bags, and few pieces of furniture so the neighbors can go about their business.

“What happened, kiddo?” Noah asks softly once his boy is sat on the sofa that survived the fire and had been carried down by the two attending werewolves—both of whom are busy scentmarking the new apartment to smell as much like pack as they can get it for now. Chris unloads his boxes in the living room and starts putting things away while Noah holds icepacks to Stiles' swollen, painful feet.

Running on fumes, heartbroken, and anxiety-ridden, Stiles spews forth the story of his crappy week turning into this entire god-forsaken day up to when he got home. At some point, Chris abandons the boxes and can be heard in the background calling Stiles' phone provider for an overnight replacement, and at some point, Derek and Peter have come over to crowd Stiles on the couch, trying to provide comfort to their distraught human packmate. Stiles pauses, takes a deep breath, and fishes out the letter that had been mistakenly sent to him from where he'd stuffed it in his singed jeans. Hand shaking, he thrusts the sheet of crumples stationary at his father, then buries his face in his knees.

Peter rubs his hands up and down Stiles' back, and Derek's hand grasps one of Stiles' where he has his arms wrapped around his legs.

Noah's face turns thunderous the further he reads, and his hand reflexively twitches beside his holstered gun. The wolves tense as a conditioned reaction, ready to protect the pack, even against unseen enemies. Chris' attention turns toward the aura of anger and defensiveness coming from the clustered men. Gray-blue, furious eyes turn back to Stiles, taking in the heartbreak and shakiness, the sudden _smallness_ from his son that only ever tried to be the largest presence in a room, to be heard and acknowledged.

“I was a means to an end and a good time to boot, “ Stiles whispers brokenly. “He played me for a fucking fool. I thought it was all real. I saved all of his letters!” His voice breaks in a sob, and he hiccups.

“I'm overruling the agreement we made against the background check,” Noah declares with finality, hands folding the stationary a little before he passes it to Peter, movements abrupt with anger. The older wolf growls low in his throat, and Derek's eyes flash in acknowledgment.

Stiles sniffs and wipes his face with the hem of his shirt. “I need to speak with Deaton,” he admits.

“What does Deaton have to offer in this situation?” Peter snarks, shoving the letter at Derek.

“I need his knowledge on fire magics,” Stiles admits nervously, feeling immeasurably tired. He leans his shoulder and head onto Peter's stronger bicep, body turning to lean fully into the older man.

“Are you saying that you think someone caused the fire? It wasn't an accident?” Noah demands, eyes hardening at the perceived threat to his son.

“It was both,” Stiles confesses. He bites his lip but forges on before his dad can interrupt. “At first I was numb after reading the letter, stunned. But then I got angry, really angry. And sparks flew from my hands and spread across the counter and along the wall before I even knew what was happening.”

Peter shifts uneasily at the mention of fire, the possibility of pyrokinesis, but he doesn't move away. Derek's hand clamps around one of Stiles' ankles. Noah stares at Stiles, but the Hales don't indicate a lie, so he sighs and sits on the coffee table across from the three on the couch, ice packs all but forgotten. He rubs his face and pulls out his phone, dialing Deaton.

“You don't do anything by halves, do you, kid?”

He really didn't.

Deaton agrees to do some research and have something concrete for them by the weekend. Peter takes it upon himself to contact Stiles' professors and employer to inform them of a family emergency that would prevent Stiles' attendance until the following Monday. Derek hustles Stiles into the shower, fashioning makeshift plastic protection for his stitched feet, and when he gets out, the former Alpha rewraps the bandages around Stiles' burned hand and shoulder. In the meantime, Chris orders pizza to be delivered, enough to feed all of them and have leftovers for Stiles so he didn't have to cook for a day or two, what with his injured feet. No one has the energy to cook or go out to eat tonight anyway. Both Noah and Chris do their own kind of background checks on Charles while the wolves tend to their injured packmate.

Stiles feels better after the shower, but still jittery and rung out. He clings to Derek and Peter, taking comfort in their proximity while his dad and Chris take charge of the adulting. His face remains buried in Peter's neck, like one of the wolf betas, his scent soothing even to his human sense, and he has the sneaking suspicion that he and Derek are pulling his pain from his lacerated feet. It's probably the only thing keeping him from swelling up more or his nerves from throbbing.

Later, after pizza has been consumed and stored, Derek and Peter agree to stick around for a few days with Stiles while the older men head back to Beacon Hills. Stiles clearly needs the comfort and probably some help around the apartment until his feet healed enough for him to move more fluidly—as fluidly as Stiles can, anyway; it would help to have moral support and backup if there needs to be a confrontation with Stiles' now-ex-boyfriend.

The offer to stay in a nearby hotel. Stiles instead forces them to share his bed, an admittedly tight squeeze with three of them—two of them broad with muscles and the combined heat of a furnace—but they make it work. The werewolves curl around their human protectively, shielding him from the outside world, arms tight, his head pillowed on Peter's chest while Derek snugs up to his back, their legs tangled impossibly. The warmth and feeling and scent of pack literally surrounding him lulls Stiles to sleep until about 10am, a whole two-and-a-half hours later than he usually gets up.

Stiles hobbles out of the bedroom to find Derek pouring coffee from a coffee pot they must have just conjured out of thin air—or pulled out of Peter's ass, which he is more inclined to believe to believe, to be honest, the smug bastard with a penchant for expensive comforts—because he does _not_ own one, especially after the fire. Peter is at the stove flipping pancakes in a frying pan he knows he didn't pack, because again, fire—did they go shopping while Stiles slept? Both are barefoot and shirtless, relaxed, looking terribly domestic. Flashbacks to similar scenes with he and Charles make him bite his lip with the force of the sorrow he feels at what he lost.

It must color his scent because in the next instant, he has a warm, muscular werewolf crowding him in, snuffling at him in an aggressive form of affection, and herding him to sit on the counter between both Hales. While Derek insistently nuzzles and plies him with fresh coffee made exactly how he likes, Peter reaches over to hook his pinky through Stiles, still focusing on cooking breakfast.

It seems the instincts in these born werewolves are at the forefront with a younger, weaker packmate injured and emotionally distraught in their immediate proximity. Even after coddling him through breakfast, they insist on having him close, pulling the slightest hint of pain, and feeding him—all day. Stiles doesn't have it in him to protest, emotionally or physically. He soaks in the love and care, ignoring the brief flare of longing he always feels when in extended proximity with either Hale male—doubly hard when they are both here together.

Without being required to attend classes or go to work, thanks to Peter's attentiveness, Stiles has a lot of extra time. He uses the time to catch up on some sleep and, later on, get ahead on some long-term assignments. When he isn't taking advantage of Derek's and Peter's willingness to proofread his rough drafts and coddle him as they see fit, the wolves putter around to resume unpacking and setting up the rest of his apartment.

His new phone is delivered mid-afternoon, and he goes through the tedious process of activating the new SIM card and setup of the device, He's grateful that he backed everything up religiously, so all he'd lose is whatever he had saved on the memory card since the old phone didn't survive the fire.

Noah calls Peter with Chris on the speaker with him, and they report back what information they dug up on Charles. Apparently, he and Angelica Tavreau are a pair of Darach involved with sporadic incidents along the West Coast, targeting young magic-potentials, and as soon as the victim is triggered into manifesting, the two struck and drained them of everything in a brutal ritual, leaving dried out, tormented husks. Charles and Angelica are in their forties, the magic they drain from their victims aiding in their much younger appearances, making it incredibly easy for twenty-year-old Stiles to believe Charles was only two years older than him.

Bile rises in his throat at the thought of how thoroughly Stiles had been played, how someone he'd been so intimate with had been involved in multiple premeditated homicides, kidnappings, and torture of at least thirty different cases—that could be proven so far—over the course of ten years.

Stiles had been another notch in Charles' belt and almost a statistic for Angelica, the one that performed the final ritual to suck up the magic and life force of each victim.

Stiles numbly gives the Sheriff all the information he can on Charles—his current alias, his address, his reported workplace—so the man can contact the correct authorities. He feels sick to his stomach, and he doesn't protest when Chris and Dad hang up to set things in motion as fast as possible. Derek helps him rush to the bathroom to empty his stomach, and Peter and his nephew spend the following hour pampering and soothing him until he feels steady enough to return to the couch.

While the phone continues to run updates in the background, Stiles grabs the box of letters and cards he'd kept. He sits and stares down at it, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, fingers restlessly rubbing the shoebox he'd decorated with stickers and stamps like a lovesick teenage girl one drunken night. Peter wanders over, sitting close, a solid presence beside him. After a few quiet minutes, Stiles drags over the waste-basket under the end table beside the couch. He opens the box and tosses the lid in the bin, eyes flitting over the numerous cards and letters with their signature blue envelopes, nestled in reverent chronological order. He takes the first he'd ever received, opening it and reading it as if it is the first time.

When he finishes it, lump in his throat threatening to choke him, heat and pressure building behind his eyes, he takes a somewhat unsteady breath, focuses on the stationary in his hands and the magic he now recognizes in his veins, and lets the roiling thing under his skin pinpoint to his fingertips.

The letter sets aflame, going up quickly, and he drops the remaining ash in the trashcan.

Methodically, Stiles re-reads and burns every card and letter, every little post-it and silly notecard Charles had ever given him, letting the venom of betrayal fuel him. The constant press of Peter's arm against his side, the combined scent of both Hales, keeps him grounded, the minute flinch at the first signs of flame reminding him not to let these flames escape his control—Peter has already been burned alive twice, he doesn't deserve a third. Derek watches carefully from across the room, silently offering support without crowding, a half-empty box of whatever in his hands still as he pauses his unpacking, although he sets it down after a moment to go open a window, allowing a breeze to whip away the wisps of smoke to avoid activating the smoke alarm.

No, Stiles won't be losing control of his fire. He has Hales to protect. Besides, he doesn't want to have to move a second time in less than twenty-four hours. The landlords might get suspicious, at any rate.

Stiles has just gotten through a little over half of the contents in the shoebox when his new phone rings. He mechanically reaches for it and grimaces at the name flashing on the screen. He swipes on Answer and puts it on speaker phone. His wolves bristle with barely restrained angry snarls as he says, “Hello Charles.”

“ _Stiles, babe, are you okay? I've been trying to get a hold of you since last night,”_ Charles' smooth baritone drawls. _“You're not giving me the cold shoulder, are you? I'm sorry about canceling again, babe, but you know how work can get.”_

“Don't worry about it, Charles, I understand,” Stiles replies, amazed that he can keep his voice relatively even. He crinkles the next letter, debating on actually re-reading it as opposed to flat-out burning it.

“ _Are you okay, Stiles?”_ Charles asks again, no doubt picking up on the strange note in his voice. Stiles can imagine his frown based on his tone, mouth turned down and brows crinkles the slightest bit. It has nothing on Derek's infamous Murder-brows. _“You don't sound like yourself.”_

“I'm about as fine as I can be,” Stiles says, not quite lying. “Have a lot on my mind, is all.” _Like lying liars who lie._ He drops the burning birthday card and reaches for the next letter.

“ _Well maybe I can distract you,”_ his ex says with a flirty grin in his tone. _“We could go out for dinner. You pick the place, okay? We can talk it out or just get your mind off of everything.”_

“I'm busy,” Stiles denies, unapologetic. A glance at Peter and Derek tells him exactly what they think of Charles trying to schmooze his way back into Stiles' good graces again, as if a dinner date is enough to make up for neglecting him the past week, not to mention plotting Stiles' murder.

Unfortunately for Charles, he'd fucked up than he thought he had and therefore has absolutely no chance at redemption.

“ _What are you doing?”_

“I'm re-reading your letters—”

“ _Aw, babe, that's so sweet—”_

Peter and Derek both snarls, making aborted moves for the phone.

“And watching them burn.”

The silence, aside from the Hales' subvocal growls, closing ranks around an enemy present in voice only, is abrupt. Stiles shudders minutely, then grabs the next page.

“ _B-babe...?”_

“Let me read an excerpt from the last one you sent to me,” Stiles bites out, dropping yet another flaming page into the trashcan. Peter reaches for the offending article off the coffee table, handing it over. Stiles leans back, dragging his legs up onto the couch. He balances the phone on an upraised knee and smooths the page down.

“ _'Angelica, my darling'—_ see right there, you forgot my name,” Stiles says with a short, sharp laugh. “I can see where you would make such a blunder. Angelica and Stiles are so similar, I'm sure anyone would make the same mistake. It's a miracle no one else has to my face!”

“ _Stiles—”_

“ _'Angelica, my darling,'_ ” Stiles grinds out, doggedly continuing through clenched teeth. “ _'I don't know why you're so upset. Stiles—'_ Oh. Well. _There's_ my name. _'Stiles still doesn't know about you, and he hasn't the slightest inkling of what we have_ planned. _He won't until I'm good and ready'_ Well, Charles, I hope you're 'good and ready' because I know now. Whatever you had planned for me isn't coming to fruition because like hell my pack is going to let you near me ever again.”

Now Peter and Derek growl, loudly enough for the spluttering man on the line to hear, and Charles makes a noise that sounds a little like choking.

“ _Stiles, babe, we can work this out, can't we?”_ Charles says, trying to recover some semblance of control. _“This is all a misunderstanding! You know I love you.”_

Stiles straightens and scowls, nearly knocking his phone off his knee as he barks out a disbelieving scoff. “No, you have never said the word 'love' to me, and it's insulting that you would try to use it against me during a confrontation. At the very least, you're an adulterer, and based on the nature of the letter, _I'm_ the mistress! That shit don't fly with me. But you were _planning_ something _against_ me, you bastard. And whatever you had _planned_ , you didn't do enough research, because I'm part of the Hale-McCall pack.” He can't help the satisfied, wicked grin at the noise of dread and disbelief Charles made. “That's right, dickhead. If you thought you would get away with anything involving me, even if you succeeded in hurting me, you wouldn't live much longer after to tell the tale. At the very least, Peter would have you strung up by your guts in the town square.”

Peter rumbles in agreement, eyes shining bright Beta blue, and Derek answers in kind.

Seconds later, there is a pounding in the background of Charles' end of the phonecall, and he can't make it out, but it sounds like someone is shouting through a door. A glance at the Hales' faces tells him only good things could be happening right now. Derek mouths “police” and Stiles smirks; his dad's contacts move fast. “I'm erasing myself from this narrative. Good luck, Charles. You're gonna need it,” and he hangs up with finality.

He lets out a heavy sigh and sets his phone down on the coffee table. Peter rubs his back soothingly as he forces himself to finish burning the rest of the letters and the box, all except for the last one, in case it's needed for evidence against the Darach couple.

Chris calls Derek not long after to confirm the Supernatural division of the FBI had apprehended Charles and had no doubts they'd get Angelica before the end of the night. He doubts that they'll involve Stiles since he hadn't been part of their crimes except as a potential victim. Stiles thanks him and lays on his side with his head in Peter's lap, unbelievably tired.

Now all that's left is to recover and move on.

~*~~*~*~*~~*~

_Two months after the incident firmly has Charles_ and Angelica Tavreau locked up in a maximum security prison for the Supernatural awaiting the decision on final sentencing from the Council, a faction not unlike the Wizengamot in the _Harry Potter_ franchise, although there were members of many Supernatural that make up the committee—Werewolves, Druids, Witches, at least one ambassador for the Unseelie and Seelie Fae, Vampires, and three humans In-The-Know. Stiles has returned to some semblance of normalcy in his life, finishing up his current semester of university so he can relax over winter break.

Deaton put Stiles in contact with a colleague to help Stiles focus and hone his newly discovered abilities as a Spark. Some research had revealed that he inherited it from his mother's side of the family, having skipped a few generations, and the more it skipped, the stronger it became. His mentor is surprised by how quickly he harnesses control and discipline, especially considering his ADHD and the nature of his PTSD, but his pack are equal measures unsurprised and proud; he was the one to teach Scott control, after all, way back when neither of them knew anything.

Peter had gotten an apartment nearby, as he felt the need to be close to his packmate while he continued with school, especially after such a close call. He's over almost every day to at the very least check in on Stiles. They often end up eating dinner together, sometimes Peter brings him coffee in the morning, and they collaborate on his schoolwork to help Stiles from burning himself out and/or run off the rails into completely different concepts in his research papers and essays. Derek visits twice a week, and those nights are the nights all three of them bundle into the small bed for group cuddles and to sleep a lot more deeply than they do without.

Slowly, more so than he expects of himself, he realizes he's being subtly courted. By both Hales. At the same time. And not in a competitive way. It's in a “we both want you together” kind of way. It's weird and new and exciting, if a little frightening too, and he spends three whole days without contacting either of them so he can research the phenomena.

It's more common that he realized, two werewolves taking the same partner and/or mate. It isn't even uncommon for the wolves to be blood relatives—although _very_ rarely parent-child pairings, thank god. Sexual relations in werewolf packs are blurred, and as long as there is consent, and no one involved are minors, polyamory is more common than monogamy.

At the end of his three-day self-exile, he opens the door to his apartment to both Peter and Derek nervously hovering outside in the hallway. Peter has that customary smirk on his face, but his eyes are careful and guarded. Derek is scowling, as per usual, but his ears are red with nervousness, body a little behind the older werewolf's as if for protection.

“You know, if either of you knew how to use your words properly, this would have happened a lot faster,” he remarks, tugging them both inside for some privacy. “How long have you wanted to make me your mate?”

Peter and Derek glance at each other briefly, surprised and yet not. “Since you turned eighteen,” Derek admits finally.

“Since before then, actually, but we weren't going to make a move before you entered adulthood,” Peter amends.

“And then I met Charles.”

Peter's lip lifts in a snarl; Derek's scowl deepens. “Yes, and then you met the absolute cur that never deserved the pleasure of your company or wit.”

Stiles nods, the pieces to the puzzle snapping firmly into place. “So do I need to do anything elaborate or ritualistic to accept, or can I just kiss you?”

For once, Peter seems stunned speechless. For once, Derek is the one to react first, and he reaches out, tugging Stiles in close. His lips hover briefly over Stiles', breath fanning over the human's face warmly. Stiles presses forward to close the distance, tilting his head, and it's like something clicks inot place, heart settling, a bond forming and locking firmly. It feels like coming home. Derek's lips are firm softness, gentleness despite rough stubble, and his hands grasp Stiles' waist to hold him close, thumbs rubbing sharp hipbones under his clothes. He feels like he's falling endlessly, the hands and lips his promise of a safety net.

A broad line of heat presses to Stiles' side, and he pants softly as the kiss breaks. A warm, strong hand turns his head, and a new set of lips claim his. He moans at the self-assured skill behind Peter's kiss, the slight contrast in style that in no way negates the other. Derek drops his head to rub his scruff along Stiles' neck while Peter holds him tenderly, working their lips and tongues masterfully. The combination successfully turns the human into a pile of melted, Stiles-shaped goo. By the end, both werewolves are basically holding Stiles up due to his jellied knees and melted brain.

“Yeah, okay. I think we can make this work,” Stiles slurs once he remembers what _words_ are.

Peter chuckles while Derek hides a smile in Stiles' clavicle, working on getting beard-burn there, too, as his shirt is pushed to the side. “Oh dear boy, I think we can do far better than that.”

“Yeah? Prove it.”

“With pleasure.”

**Author's Note:**

> Even though this had been beta-read and edited, we are still only human, so let me know if there are any corrections that need to be made. If you liked it, leave a kudos or a comment! I did my best to apply relevant tags, but if I missed anyone, please let me know. I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
